I want to talk about the new moon in Scorpio this weekend but first I want to talk about darkness. I want to talk about the eros of unknowing, and about what we learn when light leaves us. Isn’t beginning again akin to striking the match of ourselves, despite having already felt the fire burn our fingertips?
When I lived in Portland, Oregon, it was not uncommon to hear talk of the Sun. Whispers concerning its whereabouts, stories boasting electric inventions crafted to curb our longing, girls in slouchy thigh-high socks nervously fumbling through the secret pockets of their messenger bags to offer me a palm-full of little golden drops good for bodies depleted of the sun’s vitamins. It seemed common knowledge what the Sun was good for, and we suffered in its absence despite the popularity of knitting limb warmers to the sound of rain.
But, there are no vitamins, it seems, for moon-longing, for nights dreaming beneath a slice in the sky, a cut. There are no SAD lamps for when the moon is new, when she takes her time taking off her veil, when she leaves us in the dark.
Darkness, that fertile ground, both the Earth and the hole we dig around it, claims us with or without permission. Yes, we are taught to fear it—the unknown. Yet is there a heart on Earth which does not yearn for darkness? The velvet and weight of it on the crowns of our bodies, a curtain shuddering with what it covers. I’m thinking now about a section from Thalia Field’s Point and Line, a section my first girlfriend quoted on her AIM away message and imprinted into my poetic memory: “I wonder what it is about darkness that makes us sure we can’t move safely through it. Something about bumping into things with our bodies first. That the touch might be painful, erotic, before we understand it.”
I followed her and those words into darkness with the understanding that although I was bound to be one, I knew nothing of women. Knowing nothing, it turns out, is the only way to learn anything. Like a new lover, the new moon is strange. There’s something in her of the old moon, a familiar curve, a shared language. And, we’re fooled by what we think belongs to us, knowing change is evidence of life, we love as if in claiming a living thing we sentence it to death. The Scorpio new moon would die for you infinite times if you vowed to worship her at each resurrection.
It’s worth it, such a vow, for a love like that. So, worship the new moon in Scorpio; behold her in her newness, trust that it’s mutual, that she knows you’re ready to grow into your new self. There’s a part of you that’s sprouting despite evidence of first frost, a part seeded long ago, and it’s a night bloom. Trust that the new moon is witness enough to that slow opening which is the becoming of you (again and again and again).
Envision yourself thriving, move body first, admit that you know knowing about what life has in store for you—that all your knowing thus far has been desire—and you aim to learn regardless of what desire costs you. It never gets easier but you are born stronger each time. Look at that moon, a slit parting, don’t you want to reach in and begin again?